


I hold with those who favor fire.

by catieconqueso



Series: One Shots from the Pancakesverse [3]
Category: Cyberpunk 2077 (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Corpo V, Established Relationship, F/M, Smut, Specifically for the Transmission and I Walk the Line Quests, Spoilers, exes but not really, lots of mentions of death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:21:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28733367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catieconqueso/pseuds/catieconqueso
Summary: The truth was that she’d only do it for him, would sit on the cold ground and count each of his breaths while muttering a silent prayer to whatever god was listening. Prayed for his safety, that he would find the answers he sought, that she would have the courage to one day tell him that she’d been wrong.
Relationships: Male V (Cyberpunk 2077)/Original Female Character(s)
Series: One Shots from the Pancakesverse [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2081301
Kudos: 9





	I hold with those who favor fire.

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a quick one shot of the Transmission quest featuring Corpo V and my OC Nyx that ended up being 5k words. I spent the whole game thinking that V just really needed someone to care about what happened to him.
> 
> Part of the Pancakesverse, but can be read as standalone.

There was a bit of blood still beneath the nail of her ring finger. Poetic, she might have thought if she had the energy to do so. Had the energy to admit that she felt like that bit of blood, dried out, flaky, forgotten. Instead, she had plastered on a fake smile, had murmured out words of condolences, and settled as far as she could near the back of the overcrowded chapel. Last time she’d set foot in Pacifica Serenity it was to bring a life into the world, not to see one out.

 _Should go to the funerals, kiddo._ Her father had made it one of his rules, right under _you can’t save them all_. Her father had drug her to every funeral, had marched her up to the coffin, and look each one in the eye. _Can’t save them all, but you can let them know you tried._ Didn’t matter, didn’t make it hurt less when she was faced with the casket and the body inside.

Baptiste, a Pacifica street kid, barely old enough to wield the gun that had killed him. She’d held his hand when she had tried to save him, her small hands slick with blood, slipping on his skin each time she had adjusted her grip. Had promised him that everything would be okay. She’d seen the look in his eyes when he realized it wasn’t and the panic set in, and again when his hand squeezed her’s one last time before he flatlined.

They’d fixed him up nice, had patched up the fist size hole the bullet had punched in his neck so that she could barely tell it had been there at all. Could pretend he was sleeping, that any minute he would sit up and ask for a Nicola like nothing had ever happened. _Pretend that he’s sleeping, kiddo_. Could pretend that she wasn’t the one who helped her father bring Baptiste into the world when she was barely a kid herself. Almost poetic that she was the last person he saw before he died.

 _Gonna have to face death eventually. No use in running from it_. She didn’t run from it, instead embraced that nothingness that an old friend. She’d been to more funerals than she could count, had been there when a cyberpsycho shot her father in the neck and stolen the empty bag of hypos he had kept in the back of his truck. Had attended dozens for busted up joy toys, for street kids who had nothing in their stomachs save the bullet that ended their lives, had buried her family, her friends. Had fallen in love with a dying man after all.

“Lookin for Placide. Seen him around?” She knew that voice, knew the feel of each rough syllable. Had memorized the way each pitch, each tone, each way her name had sounded when it spilled from between his lips.

He lingered near the back, just beyond the ring of funeral goers, shaking fingers picking at the worn edges of his jacket. Paler than the last time she’d seen him, his skin a waxy gray color, so translucent that if he let her close enough she could count the veins that lay beneath the surface. Carried more scars too, more weight that had his shoulders slumping, body sagging, and her heart breaking. Knew that beneath his shirt she could count each of his ribs in the same way she had once counted the freckles that dotted the skin of his spine.

He hadn’t seen her even though they stood on either side of the aisle. They’d stood like that once before, pew length between them feeling like a vast and endless ocean. He’d smiled so brightly back then, had reached across the space to link their hands just as she wanted to do now. In sickness and in health, she’d pledged those words once, had choked them out around tears hot and heavy on her cheeks. Didn’t think those words applied to broken marriages anyway.

He hadn’t seen the hot tears that pricked in the corners of her eyes then, and he hadn’t seen them now. She couldn’t remember that last time she’d cried at a funeral, just assumed she had just become numb to it all, whatever walls she had built had been enough to keep out the world around her. Of course, he’d slithered under her defenses, didn’t matter though, she always left a him-sized hole in them anyway.

“Fancy seeing you here,” she managed once she was sure her voice would come out even, happy. She was supposed to be happy, always happy, even when she barely felt anything anymore.

“Nyx?” Her name came harsh, rough around a throat hoarse from what she hoped was disuse. “What are you doing here?”

“Baptiste was a patient of mine. Felt fitting that I should be here,” she answered, stepping across the aisle and over his walls. Only person he ever let in. “It's good to see you, V.” Nickname sounded foreign on her lips, bitter, wrong. She knew it was all he could tolerate, the only weight that he could stand upon his already fragile shoulders.

“Look good, Nyx.” The words were quiet, soft against the skin of her neck when he let her embrace him. The tremble was there, more pronounced, a quiver between her shoulder blades. Just as soon as she felt, he was gone, shaking hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans. Used to cover his stim use that way too. “How you been?”

“Good, fine,” she answered, the lie coming as easily as breathing, the guilt that followed not so much. She hadn’t been fine since she’d awoken alone in her apartment a week ago, the only sign of him ever being there a half eaten plate of pancakes left on her countertop. Not that she hadn’t wanted him to stay, not that she needed him to stay. Three days putting him back together slotting each piece back into place, letting him use her, break her, toss her aside without a single complaint had made her dependent, an addict in need of a fix. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Been busy,” he answered, another lie, “doing work for the VDBs. Waitin’ to meet with Brigitte. Heard she could help with a job.”

The chip, she knew the answer even though he didn’t say it, couldn’t say it. She’d been there in Vic’s clinic, had sat on that stool long enough her legs had gone numb and her back ached. Had held his hand for two days, had prayed that he would wake up and hold it back. She’d held his hand when Vic had told him about the chip, had let him stroke his fingers over the back of her hand, over the wedding ring she still wore. She had offered a ghost of a smile when he finally began to fray around the edges, had promised to help him through it all. Made the same promise on her wedding day.

“Be careful.” The warning was quiet enough only he could hear it, the words pressed to the rough skin beneath his too sharp jaw. “Don’t trust everything she says.” An easy distraction, one that slipped onto her shoulders like a well worn sweater. The young couple, affectionate, happy. They’d used it hundreds of times before, back when he was a corpo, a net runner, and now again in the shadows of a funeral for a kid she hardly knew. No one would pay them any mind if they snuck away, and he liked it that way. Knew he was a moment away from pulling her into some shadowy corner with the excuse of needing some air. Another young couple lost in each other, they’d make their way to some secluded office where he’d spend the rest of the day hacking away at some terminal and she’d be left high and dry. Just like old times.

“You know Brigitte?” He murmured the question soft and sweet into the pile of her hair. She’d swept it up that morning against the oppressive heat that had settled in her apartment overnight. He’d always liked her hair up, liked to trace his fingers over the space where her neck met her shoulders. Did it now, quick swipes of his thumb into the dip of her collar bone, made her glad she’d worn it up.

“Dad used to treat a lot of the Voodoo Boys,” she answered following his gaze to the pair of funeral goers watching them with acute interest. She let her head fall on his shoulder, let herself pretend she was just seeking comfort from her grief. Made everything simpler that way.“She was one of his patients, used to see her in a private capacity.” When his fingers stilled, she continued, “don’t worry, she’s got some fancy Bay City surgeon looking after her now. I just handle the little things.”

“Mhm.” Swipe came again, this time lower, firmer over the skin below her collar bone. “Know what she’s got up her sleeve?”

“Whatever it is, it's not worth the price she offers. Promise me you won’t sell your soul to learn about the chip.” She knew he wouldn’t listen, he never listened. Once, she’d joked that he was Icarus always looking for another sun, he’d answered that she’d always be there when he failed.In the end, after everything, she told him she couldn’t be there to catch him anymore.

His cracks were there from when he’d flown too high, scars along his skin, bits of flesh and bone she’d peel away with her nails and patch up with a smile and a kiss to each of his wounds. “No other way. Hellman was a dead end.”

“So you came here? God, V, Brigitte is going to chew you up and spit you out before you get an answer from her.” He answered with the kicked puppy look he always got when he knew he was wrong, hadn’t seen it in a while. Last time had been at Jackie’s ofrenda when he’d just stood there, hands in the pockets of his torn dress pants looking like he’d never set foot in El Coyote before.

She had followed that look up into the dark corner booth on the second level of El Coyote and let him take his grief out on her. She’d kissed him ever so sweetly when he shoved his hand beneath her dress, had whispered gently in his ear when he pressed her into the worn booth cushions. Let him use her til there was nothing left but the broken pieces of each other glued together by the brittle remains of their marriage. She’d been wearing the black dress with the lace back he’d bought her for some Arasaka party where they’d both drank too much Centzon and had awoken under his desk in the morning wearing nothing but their smiles. Fitting that they both had to delta when someone wandered too close.

“Got something she wants. Ain’t gonna touch me while the chip’s still in my head.” And there was his misplaced confidence… perfect.

“Vincent.” His name was a whisper, a desperate plea that spilled from her lips before she could stop them. “I…”

“Brigitte is waiting.” Placide had appeared from the crowd, hulking form blocking out those around them. She’d always wondered how he could move so quietly at his size, had always wondered why she was so afraid of him.

“See you around, Nyx.” The sadness and guilt were there, flashing quickly through steely grey eyes before he tampered it down beneath cool indifference. “Take care of yourself.”

“She wants both of you.”

“Not part of this. Just me.”Always protected her, even when she didn’t need protecting, even when she could have helped him. Had done so when he was at Arasaka, had kept secrets from her. _Need to keep you safe from all of that, Nyx._

“Brigitte asked for the doctor by name.” Again Placide nodded toward her, his movement clipped, annoyed. “Won’t be kept waiting.”

He followed without a second glance and she followed him. Always followed him without question, would always follow him without question. She was sure in that moment, her pinky linked with his as they wove through the crowd that she would run if he asked. Burn up beside him in a storm of bullets if all he did was ask.

“Let me do the talkin’,” he whispered once she had shuffled beside him. “I got business with Brigitte. Won’t let her use you as collateral.”

She smiled fondly at his words, at the familiar sense of his over protection that settled on her shoulders like a heavy blanket. “It's like you said, I have something that she wants. Brigitte isn’t stupid, she won’t kill us before she gets it.”

“Nyx.” Her name was soft, gentle, and unfamiliar upon his lips when he yanked her into the alcove and out of sight. He hadn’t spoken her name like that in a very long time, not since back before they’d been married. Not since she’d severed their marriage without anesthetic, without treatment, instead of leaving it to bleed out over the months and years until all that was left was whatever bloodless existence she’d chosen to cling to.

“Vincent?” His came just as gentle, a breathless whisper stolen from her lungs at the feel of his hands, hot and heavy upon her hips.

“Things go south, promise me you’ll delta. No questions, no hesitation. You run. Go to Vic’s clinic, don’t look back.” Hands shifting, drifting along the waistband of her skirt, fingers gliding smoothly against the silk that encased her hips. A relic of the days she spent as corpo arm candy, flitting from party to party to serve as nothing more than another piece of flashy property. An object without thoughts or feelings only to be coveted, desired. Things were simpler then when all she needed to survive was a smile, slinky dress, and a handful of pills stolen from the clinic.

“What about you?” His gun fit easily into the waistband of her skirt, concealed beneath the simple white silk blouse. “V…”

“Don’t want to keep Brigitte waiting,” he answered, dismissing her concern. Always dismissed her concerns. Was the final chip in their fragile marriage, the last crack that finally shattered her resolve.

Through the maze of the old Maglev tunnels, steps forward and then back again in some twisted underground waltz. Trying to make sure we can’t find it on our own, V whispered in her ear when she finally dared to ask. _I’ll keep you safe._

They were separated once they reached the main chamber, were pulled apart with rough touches. She’d only been there once, called in to identify the body of kid who’d fried his port. Not much left when she’d got there, just a scorch mark and a pile of ash and bone. If she breathed hard enough, she swore she could still smell the sweetly sick smell of burning skin.

“You will monitor him from here,” Placide ordered, nodding to the screen in front of her. “Brigitte needs you to keep ‘im kept alive until she is done.” Old tech, not pre-war but pretty close. Nothing like the fancy screens back at Vic’s clinic or the even fancier tech she’d had back in Bay City. “Do you know how to use this?”

Wasn’t sure if she wanted to run at the odd concern Placide displayed, was sure if she wanted to grab Vincent and keep running until Night City was a blip in the rearview mirror. Hide away and pretend that they were the only ones left in the world. “Yeah, dad used to have tech like this back in his clinic. Think we can make do.”

It was a simple system, monitor that could be jacked into his neural port to monitor his vitals. The tub of ice worried her, though a simple explanation from Placide did little to untangle the knot forming in her stomach. Needed to keep his body temp preem, that’s what the ice was for, to make sure he didn’t end up like that kid, a pile of ash and bone.

“Goin’ to the Blackwall,” he murmured when he finally appeared to press his jacket into her hands. The Samurai patch was frayed, loose, barely holding on, a fitting image of what their world had become. “They’re gonna use Johnny to contact Alt Cunningham.”

“The netrunner? Is that safe?” The questions were met with quick dismissal before they even left her lips, his only answer the pressing of his shirt into her waiting hands. “Vincent…I…just be careful in there.”

“Always am.” Hollow words and even hollower promises. Stripped bare, right down to his briefs she could count his ribs, see the bruises that blossomed along stomach. “In and out, just like always.”

He went into the tub with little complaint, only sound a series of grunts when the water crested over his shoulders. Knew it was for her sake, if she wasn’t standing a few feet away he would have complained the whole way. Always putting on a brave face for her sake.

“Fuck, it's cold!” His hand shot out of the water, ice skittering to a stop at her feet, his fingers groping blindly until they found her own. “T…t…think I’m d…d…dying…”

“Some say in ice. From what I’ve tasted of desire, I hold with those who favor fire.” The words were whispered into the top of his shaking hand.From the way his grimace melted into a smile her distraction had worked. “You always ran hot.”

“Frost?”

She hummed in agreement, lips pressed quickly to his skin before she settled it against her side. “Not dying,” she murmured, free hand carding through his buzzed hair. Used to calm him, hoped it would have the same effect now. “Just a little cold.”

“We need some time to calibrate the coordinates. Keep him conscious.”

“Remember when we flew to Tokyo the first time?” The question came quickly, nervously from her lips, though the smile that briefly stilled his chattering teeth made them worth it. “Stayed at the Konpeki Plaza near that drive with all the cherry blossoms.”

“Mhm…shit…promised to show you the sights.” His words were harsh, forced around teeth clenched so hard it made her own jaw ache. “Didn’t…didn’t make it out of the hotel room.”

“Three whole days in Tokyo and the only sights I saw were either your ugly mug or the ceiling.” Remembered that trip, only real view of the city was the one from the rocket, when he’d leaned over her to point out landmarks as they landed. That and whatever view she could garner from the balcony of the hotel.

“And…and the fish tank in the floor. Fuu….fuck…Looked awfully good spread out against all that b…b…blue.”

“Uh huh. I had to lie to Vic when he asked what my favorite part of the trip was.” The tremors against her palm were beginning to slow, his eye lids beginning to droop. “Owe me a trip there when this is all over, Samurai.”

“Always hated that name,” he slurred. Loss of consciousness, disorientation, slurred speech, his body temperature was plummeting fast, hypothermia not far behind. “Like when you use my real name.”

“Thought you wanted me to call you Samurai?” She tried to keep her tone light, her smile genuine, though panic was beginning to settle into her bones, made her jittery. “Told me to call you that when you tried to pick me up at the Coyote.” She’d been fresh from Bay City, her bags and Trauma Team diploma hastily dumped at her small apartment before she’d set out for the bar. He’d been so confident in his poor fitting corpo suit, had leant on the bar beside her with a sharp smile. Knew his smile anywhere, had seen it dozens of times when they were kids, predator looking for its prey.

 _Haven’t seen you here before._ Almost gave herself away without really trying. He looked so desperate, convincing. She’d told him that she was back in town, wasn’t a lie. Was supposed to be meeting friends there.

 _Could be the person you’re meeting. People round here call me Samurai._ She’d nearly fallen off her barstool from laughing too hard.

“Vincent, you gotta stay awake,” she warned when his eyes blinked shut, dark lashes stark against his pale cheeks. “Tell me about Tokyo.”

“Not…m…much else to say. Too busy thinking about that fish tank.”

“We’re ready.” He was gone then, blue grey eyes fluttering shut, his hand slipping easily from hers. Color of the sky right before a storm she’d once told him when she’d been feeling particularly sappy. Favorite color in the whole world.

“Vitals are strong.” Always so strong. Even with the chip wreaking havoc in his brain his heart still beat strong, his lungs still drew breath. Just sleeping, she told herself. They were back in their old apartment, the one in corpo plaza with the balcony that looked out of all of Night City. He’d fallen asleep beneath her in the bathtub, the one large enough to fit half of Watson and then some.

“You care about ‘im.”

“Cared about him,” she corrected, fingers again linking with his. Placide’s question brought an odd clenching to her chest, deeper, higher than the knot in her stomach. “We aren’t together anymore. Doing this as a courtesy.” Maybe if she said it out loud she’d believe the lie herself.

“Nyx Antonovich, maiden name Andromache. Age 27. Marital status listed as married.” Placide listed the facts with even less emotion than a computer. Something about that was more unsettling than the way he was able to recall those details without taking a single breath. “Divorce papers requested through Night City clerk’s office. No record that they were completed or filed.”

Papers still sat tucked in the drawer of her desk, hidden beneath a stack of old files and their marriage license. She’d put them there the day she’d gotten them, had told herself that one day she’d give them to him. Wasn’t any point in hanging on to them for so long.

Wasn’t a point in wearing her wedding ring. Wasn’t a point in accepting him back with open arms each time he slunk home either. The ground was cold again the silk that encased her legs when she sunk to sit beside the tub, Vincent’s hand still cool in her own. Always ran hot, so hot she never needed a jacket, just needed to warm herself in his arms. Cold and clammy didn’t fit him, reminded her that he was a dead man walking.

She didn’t bother asking Placide for a chair, knew he wouldn’t have gotten one anyway. “Glad to see that Brigitte thinks I’m enough of a threat to have a file on me.”

“She ‘as one of ‘im.” Placide excused himself with a polite nod, another unsettling gesture, and she was alone then, the only sound the occasional stuttered breath or nails tapping at keys. And his whines and moans, soft from parted lips, soft enough she could pretend she didn’t hear them.

Could pretend that this was a courtesy, would do it for any of her friends. The truth was that she’d only do it for him, would sit on the cold ground and count each of his breaths while muttering a silent prayer to whatever god was listening. Prayed for his safety, that he would find the answers he sought, that she would have the courage to one day tell him that she’d been wrong. That she wanted to go back to the way everything was, to fall asleep warm in his arms each night, to tell him that she loved him each time he smiled.

The first sound came as a pop and a soft cry. Another and a pair of bodies hit the floor. Another, and another, each netrunner collapsing in a soft fizzle in a perfect circle, a wave cresting closer to the small shore on which they were beached. Brigitte fell last, no sound escaping her lips. _Pretend that they're asleep, kiddo._

She wasn’t asleep.

“Vincent?” She hissed his name, his hand abandoned to punch furiously at the keyboard controlling his link. She needed to wake him up and wake him up quickly. Christ, why was this so complicated. Had seen enough netrunners in her time that this should be easy as pie. Married to one for Christ sake. “Fuck! Come on, you gotta wake up.” Everything around her went quiet, no cries, no clacking of keys, just unnerving silence, and the overpowering stench of burning skin and muscle and bone.

He was pale, ever so pale, nearly as white as the ice that floated around him. “Nyx?” Her name spilled forth from between blue lips, from between chattering teeth split in a gentle smile.

“I’m here,” she soothed, hand tightening over his. “Don’t get up too quickly, your bodies in shock. It's okay, you’re safe. I got you.” Christ, she really was in too deep. She needed him to open his eyes, needed to look at him, needed to know he was okay.

“Gotta say I agree with Frost,” he murmured, eyes fluttering open to meet hers. “Fire sounds nice right about now.” Wasn’t sure she agreed. Must not have smelt the sweet scent of burning skin that hung heavy around them, the sight of burned out holes where eye sockets had once been.

“Gonna have to settle with your clothes.” She helped him dress quickly, tried to ignore Brigitte where she lay at their feet. Just had to pretend that the liquid running down her cheeks were tears. “Shit, we need to leave, now.”

“Fuuuucccckkkkk…they really did it. Said they were going give me a way out.” Tried to block out the view of the others, but he was always taller than her. Had once said it was the one thing he loved about her, how she could easily rest her head on his shoulder. “Christ he really did it.” He was babbling, stuttering, hands shaking and faltering on his belt. Knew she shouldn’t have woken him up so quickly, should have gotten his body temp up before yanking him from the tub. Whole chapter on body temperature control in her old TT textbooks, could recite each line word for word. Always said that kinda stuff they printed in those books didn’t apply to the real world.

She finished for him, was used to dressing him. Used to do it every morning before he left for Arasaka. Would tie his tie and finish with a kiss. Tried to ignore the way her hands shook now as she finished slipping his jacket on his shoulders, the way he leant most of his weight against her. Could have blown him over with just a touch. “They? Who did this?”

“Netwatch,” he answered, gaze warily landing on the circle of bodies around them “Didn’t hurt you?”

“Me? No.” His gun came loose from her skirt easy enough, pressed heavy into his hands like it was built to fit there. “We have to go.” She tried to ignore the way he stumbled when she pulled him toward the door, the way his hand shook when he clicked off the safety.

He slowed, pressed her to the door out of sight, pinned her body with his. Wasn’t sure if it was for her safety or cause his legs had given out. “Nyx,” he whispered, thumb brushing over her full bottom lip. “Stay here out of sight, only move when I tell you to.”

“Are you sure you can walk?” She was silenced by another swipe of his thumb. “I can help. I can fire a gun.”

“Nyx.” The order was soft, gently murmured against her lips when he pressed his own to hers. His lips were cold, like the time she’d kissed him amongst the falling snow on the tarmac in Frankfurt. Like she’d just kissed a dead man.

He made short work of the Voodo Boys waiting for them. Moved silently and quickly, each dying with a quick shout and a blade to their throat. Not the first time she’d seen him kill, but the sight still left her breathless. There’d been the corpo agent in Tokyo killed on the roof of the Arasaka tower while a New Year’s party raged below. The cyberpsycho who robbed their apartment. The street kid who tried to mug her on her way home from Vic’s. Didn’t mean her stomach didn’t turn each time a body hit the ground. Wasn’t scared though, knew he’d never hurt her. He’d let the world burn first.

“Clear,” he called, hand reaching out in the dim tunnel to link with hers. Skin felt warmer, more like him. “Okay?” Another swipe along her bottom lip. “Stay close, we’re almost out.” The underground waltz hadn’t worked on him, he navigated the tunnels easily enough, pulled her between the train cars and through the rubble until she again felt the filtered sunlight of the chapel upon her skin. She’d never been more grateful to breathe in the heavy Night City air.

“Shit, we have to get out of Pacifica.” The funeral had cleared out, leaving them alone. He’d slowed to lean against the pews, fingers pressing to his temples groan.

“Car’s round the corner. Black Delamain.” He sunk to the pew furthest from the door with a hacking cough, back of his hand hastily pressed to his lips to hide the blood that had spilled on his chin. Didn’t matter, she’d already seen it.

“I’ll be right back, stay here,” she ordered, unsure if it was to soothe her nerves or his. Didn’t matter because she didn’t make it far, just a few steps towards the door before she felt cool metal pressed to her left temple.

“Drop da weapon.” Even angry, Placide’s voice remained even, computer like. Only sign was the way his hand trembled slightly on the shotgun he held to her head. “Do it now or she dies.”

“Gonna put the weapon down.” Couldn’t see him, but the fear was there in his voice, in the way the words came out slowly, harsh, grating. “Like I said, she ain’t part of this. Let her go and we’ll talk.”

“You chose to work with da Netwatch. Don’t deserve mercy.” The click of the safety traveled as a bolt of fear down her spine. This wasn’t like those corpo ops he’d brought her on, he’d always been there to save her even though she never was ever in any real danger. Didn’t feel like he’d be there to save her this time. “Leave before I change my mind.”

“Vincent,” his name was a plea on her lips, “do as he says. I’ll be fine, I promise. Won’t kill the only ripperdoc willing to work in Pacifica.” It was a lie, and not a very good one. She just hoped that it was enough to convince him to listen, to convince him that he wasn’t strong enough to win this fight.

_Gotta go to the funerals, kiddo. Show’s ‘em that you care, that you aren’t afraid of death. No use in a ripperdoc who’s afraid of death._

“Let her go, and we work this out, you and me. Nice and simple,” he answered, voice even, gentle. And then all hell broke loose.

She was tossed to the ground, hip and back colliding painfully with the carpet covered concrete, a pained hiss escaping her lips. She had but a moment to roll beneath one of the pews before a spray of gunfire erupted over her head.

Placide fell slower than the others, lasted longer, the sound of gunfire near constant pops muffled by the press of her hands to her ears and the thick wooden pew above her. Was used to gunfire, this was Night City after all. What she wasn’t used to was being caught in a fire fight. Always had been careful to avoid those sort of things.

Another pop above her, this time louder, closer, the heat of the grenade searing through her thin blouse. Then a thud, the familiar sound of a body hitting ground. And then nothingness save the ringing in her ears and the heavy silence that settled around her.

She should run for it, make for the door and not look back. She’d promised him she’d do so if everything went to hell, yet she couldn’t move, frozen just like the remnants of ice that stained her skirt.

She needed to run, make it to his car. She’d head for Vic’s clinic so that they could recover his body. And then she’d have to stand in a chapel just like this and tell everyone that he died trying to save her. _Gotta go to the funerals._

On three, she thought through shaky breaths and trembling fingers. Gonna go on three. She ran, stumbled out from beneath the pew, barely made it her knees before she was forced back onto the cold ground.

Air rushed from her lungs in a whoosh, her vision blurring at the force of it. Wasn’t going to have to worry about the funeral, she was going to join him instead. Just hoped that Placide made it quick.

He was above her, blue grey eyes wide, wild. She couldn’t even manage out a sound before his lips were on hers. Didn't’ speak, didn’t need to. The press of his lips on hers was enough. Deep, desperate, just as desperate as the way her hands pulled at his jacket to haul him closer. Desperate in the way they both shucked their clothing quick and dirty until all she could feel was the warm press of his skin above her and the rough carpet below.

“Fuck, Nyx. Killed him just for touching you,” he babbled between nips and bites to the skin of her jaw. “Thought you were dead.” His hands were everywhere at once as he took and took and took from her until she wasn’t sure there was much left that wasn’t his. And she let him. Let him settle his weight over her, around her, in her. Met each desperate snap of his hips with her own. Let her hands touch each part of his bare skin, trace every scar, count every freckle.

Let him use her, let him chase away whatever fear still lingered bitterly on her tongue. Always him, only him. Needed to feel alive, needed to feel that he was alive. Needed to ignore how close they’d both come to death.

And when they had burned out, hot, fast, and bright, she dressed quietly as he did the same. They left that chapel, left Placide’s cooling body left where it lay. He’d set fire to what was left, had said that places like this were dangerous in the wrong hands.

With his hand linked in hers, she burned hot, ever so hot. Still didn’t matter, she would always burn for him. And before them, the chapel burned, engulfed in flames.

_From what I’ve tasted of desire, I hold with those who favor fire_


End file.
